Berkley took it, examined it, handed it back.

“Return it to Colonel Arran with Mr. Berkley’s undying—­compliments,” he said, and went blindly out into the April night, but his senses were swimming as though he were drunk.

Behind him the door of the house of Arran clanged.

Larraway stood stealthily peering through the side-lights; then tiptoed toward the hallway and entered the dining-room with velvet tread.

“Port or brandy, sir?” he whispered at Colonel Arran’s elbow.

The Colonel shook his head.

“Nothing more.  Take that box to my study.”

Later, seated at his study table before the open box, he heard Larraway knock; and he quietly laid away the miniature of Berkley’s mother which had been lying in his steady palm for hours.

“Well?”

“Pardon.  Mr. Berkley’s key, with Mr. Berkley’s compliments, sir.”  And he laid it upon the table by the box.

“Thank you.  That will be all.”

“Thank you, sir.  Good night, sir.”

“Good night.”

The Colonel picked up the evening paper and opened it mechanically: 

“By telegraph!” he read, “War inevitable.  Postscript!  Fort Sumter!  It is now certain that the Government has decided to reinforce Major Andersen’s command at all hazards——­”

The lines in the Evening Post blurred under his eyes; he passed one broad, bony hand across them, straightened his shoulders, and, setting the unlighted cigar firmly between his teeth, composed himself to read.  But after a few minutes he had read enough.  He dropped deeper into his arm-chair, groping for the miniature of Berkley’s mother.

As for Berkley, he was at last alone with his letters and his keepsakes, in the lodgings which he inhabited—­and now would inhabit no more.  The letters lay still unopened before him on his writing table; he stood looking at the miniatures and photographs, all portraits of his mother, from girlhood onward.

One by one he took them up, examined them—­touched them to his lips, laid each away.  The letters he also laid away unopened; he could not bear to read them now.

The French clock in his bedroom struck eight.  He closed and locked his desk, stood looking at it blankly for a moment; then he squared his shoulders.  An envelope lay open on the desk beside him.

“Oh—­yes,” he said aloud, but scarcely heard his own voice.

The envelope enclosed an invitation from one, Camilla Lent, to a theatre party for that evening, and a dance afterward.

He had a vague idea that he had accepted.

The play was “The Seven Sisters” at Laura, Keene’s Theatre.  The dance was somewhere—­probably at Delmonico’s.  If he were going, it was time he was afoot.

His eyes wandered from one familiar object to another; he moved restlessly, and began to roam through the richly furnished rooms.  But to Berkley nothing in the world seemed familiar any longer; and the strangeness of it, and the solitude were stupefying him.